


The (After) Life of the Party

by Bigmurderenergy



Series: The (After) Life of the Party [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loneliness, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a look into how one deals with being Richie Tozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 20:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bigmurderenergy/pseuds/Bigmurderenergy
Summary: Richie Tozier is great at parties.Richie Tozier is also an alcoholic stand-up with anxiety issues and some deep seated emotional issues that probably don't need any examination. So here's a fic about those things.





	The (After) Life of the Party

**Author's Note:**

> Named after a Fall Out Boy song. I don't know if that makes it more accurate to Richie or not. But I'll say sure.

Richie Tozer is great at parties.

OK, that’s a lie. Richie Tozier is great at parties that his publicist sends him to, when armed with a bottle of Lexapro and Xanax in his pocket. A bottle of whiskey in his hand. A full packet of cigarettes in his jacket.

No one questions the amount of alcohol he drinks or the fact that he sometimes hides in the bathroom for longer than is polite due to the fact he’s so much damn fun. So, the bathroom smells like the inside of an ashtray afterwards. Who cares when Richie Tozier is so much damn fun? Who cares that Richie will pass out on a stray bed when left to his own devices? Who cares that he drags a random party goer to that bedroom with him?

Richie Tozier is amazing at parties. People love him.

That’s what he tells himself.

That’s what he tries to remind himself as his eyes crack open to an unfamiliar ceiling. An unfamiliar bed. Someone he doesn’t recognise sleeping beside him. The familiar taste of stale alcohol on his tongue. Sometimes he’s naked. Sometimes he’s not. It’s happens far too often.

His publicist has called him out on it several times. Not his family or friends. His publicist. Because it’s bad for business. He enjoys being reminded that he’s part of something far larger than himself. He has people who rely on him. He needs to be better.

He remembers when it was just himself facing a darkened room of invisible faces. All he had to do was get those laughs. Maybe a gasp. That gorgeous intake of breath when people know they shouldn’t but then laugh anyway. When getting an applause was an actual achievement.

Now people just laugh when they see his face. Richie would like to think it’s because they’re remembering a joke he told at some point and they’re connecting that memory to the experience of meeting him in person. Or maybe he had a funny looking face.

But people love Richie, y’see. They love his humour. They love that dumb fucking face. People clap as he walks on stage, he has nothing to prove anymore. They’re already there for him. They’re happy because they’re seeing him. Clapping like seals as he swallows down the last of the bourbon he drained as he walked on stage. He can still taste the Xanax stuck in his throat. But they won’t know that. They think he’s genuinely happy to be there. He is. He’s Richie fucking Tozier.

The jokes are staid. Old hat at this point. They laugh anyway. He doesn’t even have to try. He tries to remember what that feels like. What it felt like to crave their love rather than have it handed to him.

Fame fucks with your brain. Not that he’s even that famous. He can walk down the street without so much as a glance. His dumb fucking face melding into the crowd. He’s ok with not being seen most of the time. Only when the spotlight is on him. Otherwise it’s finding somewhere to hide. A dressing room, a small bathroom, a closet. Drinking as slowly as he dares. But is it really slow when it’s a bottle of whiskey? Is it ever slow when you feel yourself slowly descending into oblivion with each sip?

It’s gotten easier to convince his team that he’s fine to go on stage, as he’s gotten older, he’s just gotten better at hiding how drunk he is. If you were a doctor, you’d describe him as a functioning alcoholic. Not that Richie is asking for your opinion. He’s doing fine.

Richie finds it hard to remember large swaths of his life. Blame it on the alcohol.

Richie can’t remember his childhood. He makes jokes about it. Well, the writers make jokes about a version of a childhood he had. According to them he grew up in LA. As most people in showbiz assume. Richie reminds them that no one is born in Hollywood. Everyone moves there, for the spotlight, for the attention, the fame, the glory. To become something.

Richie didn’t make it to LA until he was in his 30s. He started his stand-up career in New York working his way through improv groups then finding his way into his own voice. It was the anxiety that stopped him performing alone until he hit his late 20s. Then he was “discovered”. Ain’t that the normal story? Not much material to be had from that.

The writers ignored his anecdotes of sleeping on dirty floors in Queens. Not being able to afford a roof over his head until he got his first tour. Not being able to afford edible food until he had done three shows in a night. Getting free drinks from amused patrons. Finding himself fumbling with a lot of them in order to have somewhere soft to sleep for the night. Stand-up isn’t high paying unless you’re being sponsored by Netflix. You do it for the love. The love of the art. The love of the people laughing with you. At your stupid fucking face. That’s not an entertaining story though. It’s not “funny” funny, y’know?

He couldn’t tell you what happened before college. He moved out to New York and that’s it. He barely remembers his parents, only knowing they hated his guts. Only getting in contact when they saw him on Conan. They suddenly remembered they had a son. Richie suddenly remembered he had parents.

He never called them back.

So, he gets this phone call from Derry. Sounds familiar. Maine? Had he even been to Maine? Maybe on tour once.

The voice on the other end doesn’t sound like anyone he knows. For one, the voice didn’t start pitching a new TV special immediately. Didn’t refer to his agency in the same breath as his name. Didn’t breathe heavily, saying he knew where Richie lived either, which was refreshing. Not that Richie even knew where he lived beyond a variety of expensive hotel rooms and other people’s beds.

Mike, was his name he said, “Mike Hanlon.” Richie got a pang of recognition. He asked for Richie to come back to Derry. Come back? From where?

He said sure, compelled to please the voice.

He hung up and found himself gasping for air. Finding the nearest door and grasping the metal fencing, his stomach ridding himself of whatever the hell he’d been given that morning for breakfast and half a bottle of wine.

Next thing he knew his publicist was gripping his shoulders dragging him on stage. Richie pulled the pills from his jacket, the only way he knew how to deal with these sensations, while screaming for a bourbon and downing that in two gulps. He cannot remember his performance. If performance is what you want to call it. His manager, the colour of a peach by the time he came off stage, barely looking him in the eye as he stormed off.

All the easier to escape.

Here’s the thing about Richie. He’s great at parties. Well, besides that, he’s amazing at slipping away without anyone knowing. He’s got it down to an art. It’s almost like he was never there. Ask his parents, who clearly never questioned his disappearance until they thought they could get some royalties. Ask his friends who let him sleep on their floors for months for him to just disappear one morning and never return.

It’s not that he’s trying to be rude or anything. Richie just hates goodbyes. Not that anything is ever goodbye. Like that time one of his friends found him in the middle of Brooklyn and chased him a few blocks screaming about utilities and food bills that Richie could “totally fucking pay for now that you’re a big movie star or whatever!”

Richie can hide. Richie can escape. He can be the centre of the party then disappear.

Which is what he assumes he did when he left Derry because he cannot remember leaving. It was just something he must have done. He barely remembers being there and yet still knows each shop window. He knows where the school is. He knows where each tree has overgrown hanging over each road. He knows where the Chinese place is, from Google rather than memory.

He remembers Beverly and Ben as soon as seeing them.

He remembers how beautiful they looked when they were teenagers. He doesn't remember saying goodbye. Maybe he never did. Maybe he didn't need to. It was never goodbye in the end. Considering they’re standing in the carpark now. They were always going to meet again.

So, when he sees Eddie. Well hey. That’s a new sensation.

Or is it?

Richie remembers a variety of young men from his 20s. Shorter than him. Tuft of dark brown hair. Strong brows. Small mouths. He remembers sleeping on their floors. Remembers listening to them make love to their girlfriends. Remembers telling himself it’s fine and that he just can’t afford an apartment right now. He remembers staying there too long. Every single time. He remembers leaving before saying goodbye.

He remembers kissing the forehead of one of those soft brown-haired men. He remembers being sick minutes later. Looking at his scarred hand resting against the lip of the toilet seat as his guts recoiled in anger.

He looks at Eddie and he sees a lifetime. He looks at Eddie and really needs a fucking drink.

Richie Tozier is fucking great at parties. He is the life of the fucking party. Invite him to any party and he will create it. He will honour it with his presence. OK, sometimes he’ll hide in the closet. Sometimes he’ll drink too much and pass out on your couch. But you know it’s worth it. You know you love him.

So, when he’s sitting at that dinner table with vague memories of a life, he never said goodbye to. He’s trying really hard to remind himself. He’s good at this. They love him and he doesn’t even have to try. Bill, Mike, Ben, Beverly… Eddie. They love him for him. They clap as he enters the room. There’s no spotlight, he’s still exposed in a way he’s never felt. For the first time in a long time. It’s not a performance.


End file.
